Cry Wolf

by Wilbur Smith

up into the soft underbelly of the hull. It blew the engine block off

  its seating, tore off the big front wheels like wings from a roast

  chicken, and stove in the steel floor of the hull with a great

  Thor's hammer stroke.

  If Gareth Swales's feet had been in contact with the steel floor of the

  hull, the shock would have been transmitted directly into the bones of

  his feet and legs, and he would have suffered that dreadful but

  characteristic wound of the tank man below the knees his legs would

  have been transformed into bags of shattered bone.

  He was, however, suspended half in and half out of the driver's hatch

  with both legs kicking frantically in the air, and the shock of the

  blast came up like carbon dioxide in a bottle of freshly opened

  champagne. He was the cork and he was shot out of the hatch, still

  kicking.

  The effect on the Ras was the same. He came out of the turret,

  propelled high by the blast and he met Gareth at the top of his

  trajectory. The two of them came down to earth simultaneously, with

  the Ras seated between Gareth's shoulder blades, and the wonder of it

  was that neither of them was impaled upon the war sword which went with

  them and finally pegged deep into the earth six inches from Gareth's

  ear as he lay face down and feebly tried to dislodge the Ras from his

  back.

  "I warn you, old chap," he managed to gasp. "One day you are going to

  go too far." The sound of oncoming engines, many of them and all

  roaring in high revolutions, made Gareth's efforts to dislodge the

  Ras more determined. He sat up spitting sand and blood from his

  crushed lips, and looked up to see the remaining Italian transports

  bearing down on them like the starting grid of the Le Mans Grand

  Prix.

  "Oh my God!" gasped Gareth, his scattered wits reassembling hastily,

  and he crawled frantically into the shattered and still smoking carcass

  of the Hump, beginning to shrink down out of sight before he realized

  that the Ras was no longer with him.

  "Rassey, you stupid old bastard come back, he shouted despairingly. The

  Ras, once again armed with his trusty broadsword,

  was staggering out on unsteady stork's legs, stunned by the shell burst

  but still fighting mad, and there was no doubting his intentions. He

  was going to take on the entire motorized column single-handed, and as

  he hurried to meet them, shouting a challenge, he loosened up with a

  few hissing two-handed cuts with the sword.

  Gareth had to duck under the swinging blade, going in low in a flying

  rugby tackle, to bring the old warrior down in an untidy heap.

  He dragged him, still shouting and struggling furiously, under cover of

  the broken steel hull, just as the first Italian truck roared past

  them. The pale-faced occupants paid them not the slightest attention.

  they were intent on one thing only and that was following their

  Colonel.

  "Shut up!" growled Gareth, as the Ras tried to provoke them with some

  of the foulest oaths in the Amharic language. Finally he had to hold

  the Ras down, wrap his sham ma around his head, and sit on it while the

  Italian Fiats thundered past, and the rolling clouds of dust spread

  over them as though driven by the khamsin.

  Once through the dust and confused stampede of trucks, Gareth thought

  he glimpsed the hump-backed shape of Priscilla the Pig, and he released

  the Ras for a moment to wave and shout, but the car disappeared almost

  instantly, hard on the trail of a lumbering Fiat,

  and Gareth heard the short crashing burst of the Vickers clearly, even

  above the thunder of many engines.

  Then suddenly they were all past, streaming away, the engine sounds

  fading, the dust settling and then there was another sound,

  faint yet but growing with every second.

  Although most of the Harari and Galla horsemen had long ago given up

  the pursuit in favour of the more enjoyable and profitable occupation

  of looting the capsized and damaged Italian trucks, a few hundred of

  the more hardy souls still flogged on their foundering mounts.

  This thin line of horsemen came sweeping forward, ululating and

  casually cutting down the Italian survivors from the destroyed trucks

  who fled before them on foot.

  "All right, Rassey." Gareth unwound the sham ma from around his head.

  "You can come out now. Call your boys up, and tell them to get us out

  of here." In the few moments of respite while the main body of

  motorized infantry came through the batteries, Major Castelani hurried

  from gun to gun, lashing with tongue and cane until he had contained

  the infectious panic of his gunners and had them under his hand

  again.

  Then out of the dust clouds, appearing at short pistol range as

  suddenly as a ghost ship, but with the Vickers machine gun in its

  turret crackling wickedly and the muzzle blast flickering in an angry

  throbbing red glow, was a second Ethiopian armoured car.

  It was enough to destroy the semblance of control that Castelani had

  forced heavy-handedly upon the gun crews.

  As the armoured car swung across their line at point-blank range,

  raking the exposed guns with a withering. burst of machine-gun fire,

  the loaders dropped their ready shells and almost knocked the layers

  from their seats in their anxiety to get behind the armoured shield of

  the gun. They all huddled there with their heads well down. The

  driver of the armoured car, after that one rapid pass down the front of

  the batteries, swung the vehicle abruptly back into the screen of

  dust.

  Jake had been just as startled by the encounter as were the gunners;

  at one moment he had been joyously tearing along after a fat

  wallowing

  Fiat, and at the next he had emerged from a cloud of dust to be

  confronted by the gaping muzzles of the big guns.

  "My God, Greg, "Jake shouted up at the boy in the turret.

  "We nearly ran right into them."

  "Volleyed and thundered do you remember the poem?"

  "Poetry, at a time like this?" growled Jake, and he gave Priscilla the

  throttle.

  "Where are we going?"

  "Home, and the sooner the quicker. That's a powerful argument they are

  pointing at us."

  "Jake-" Gregorius began to protest, when there was a bang and a flash

  that glowed briefly even through the shrouds of dust, and close beside

  the high turret passed a

  100 men. shell. The air slammed against their eardrums and the shriek

  of it made both of them flinch violently, the air.

  stank of the electric sizzle of its passing, and it burst half a mile

  beyond them in a tall tower of flame and dust.

  "Do you see what I mean?" asked Jake.

  "Yes, Jake oh yes, indeed As he spoke, the dust clouds that had

  covered them so securely now subsided and drifted aside, exposing them

  unmercifully to the attentions of the Italian guns, but revealed also

  was another tempting target. The Ethiopian cavalry were still coming

  on, and after a few futile volleys had burst around the tiny elusive

  shape of the speeding car, Castelani resigned himself to the


  limitations of his gunners and switched targets.

  "Shrapnel," he bellowed. "Load with shrapnel fuse for air burst."

  He hurried along the battery, repeating the order to each layer,

  emphasizing his orders with the cane. "New target. Massed horsemen.

  Range two thousand five hundred metres, fire at will." The Ethiopian

  ponies were small shaggy beasts, bred for sure-footed ascent of

  mountain paths, rather than sustained charges across open plains they

  had, moreover, been pastured for weeks now on the dry sour grass of the

  desert, and in consequence their strength was by this time almost

  expended.

  The first shrapnel burst fifty feet above the heads of the leading

  riders. It popped open like a gigantic pod of the cotton plant,

  blooming with sudden fearsome splendour the milky blue sky. It bloomed

  with a crack as though the sky had shattered, and instantly the air was

  filled with the humming, hissing knives of flying shrapnel.

  A dozen of the ponies went down under the first burst, pitching forward

  abruptly over their own heads and flinging their riders free.

  Then the sky was filled with the deadly cotton balls, and the

  continuous crack of the bursts sent the ponies wheeling and the riders

  crouching low on their withers or swinging out of the saddle to hang

  low under the bellies of their mounts. Here and there a braver soul

  would kick his feet free of the stirrups and pick up a dismounted

  comrade on each of the leathers, the gallant little ponies labouring

  under their triple burdens. Within seconds, the entire Ethiopian army

  its single remaining armoured vehicle and all its cavalry were in a

  retreat every bit as headlong as that of the motorized Italian column

  which was still on its way back to the Wells of Chaldi. The field was

  left entirely to Castelani's artillery and the stranded crew of the

  Hump.

  From the shelter of the shattered hull, Gareth Swales watched his hopes

  of quick rescue fading rapidly in the shape of the dwindling cavalry.

  "Don't blame them, not really," he told the Ras, and then he looked

  across at the speeding armoured car. Priscilla the Pig was rapidly

  overhauling the cavalry.

  "He saw us, - I know he did." There had "Him I do," he muttered.

  been a moment when Priscilla the Pig had passed within a quarter of a

  mile of them, had in fact turned directly towards them for a few

  moments. "Do you know something, Rassey old fellow, I do believe we

  are being set up for a couple of Patsys." He glanced at the Ras, who

  lay beside him like an old hunting dog that has been worked too hard;

  his chest laboured like a blacksmith's bellows, and his breathing

  whistled shrilly in his throat.

  "Better take those choppers out of your mouth, old chap or else you're

  going to swallow them. The fighting's over for the day. Take it nice

  and easy now. We've got a long walk home tonight." And Gareth

  Swales transferred all his attention back to the disappearing car.

  "Big-hearted Jake Barton is leaving us here and going home to spoon up

  the honey. Who was the chap that David pulled the same trick on? Come

  on, Rassey, you are the Old Testament expert wasn't it

  Uriah the Hittite?" He shook his head sadly. Gareth was already ready

  to believe the worst. "I take it very much amiss, Rassey, I can tell

  you.

  Probably have done exactly the same myself, mind you but I do take it

  amiss gaming from a fine upright citizen like Jake Barton." The Ras

  had not listened to a word of it. He was the only man in the two

  armies for whom the battle had not ended.

  He was just having a short rest, as behave a warrior of his advanced

  years. Now, with a single bound, he was on his feet again,

  snatching up his sword and heading directly for the centre of the

  Italian batteries. Gareth was taken completely off balance, and the

  Ras had covered fifty yards of the necessary two thousand to the enemy

  positions before Gareth could overtake him.

  It was unfortunate that one of the Italian gun-layers had his

  binoculars focused on the derelict hull of the Hump at that moment.

  The belligerence of the Italian gunners was in inverse proportion to

  the number and proximity of the enemy and all of them were giddy with

  elation at the total and unexpected victory that had dropped into their

  laps.

  The first shell dropped close beside the broken hull of the Hump,

  as Gareth caught up with the Ras. Gareth stooped and picked up a

  rounded stone, about the size of a cricket ball.

  "Frightfully sorry, old chap," he panted, as he cupped the stone in his

  right hand. "But we really can't go on like this." He made allowance

  for the brittle old bone of the Ras's skull, and with the stone he

  tapped him carefully, almost tenderly, above the ear, on the polished

  black bald curve of the Ras's pate.

  As the Ras dropped, Gareth caught him, one arm under his knees and the

  other around the shoulders, as though he was a sleeping child. The

  shells were falling heavily about him as Gareth ran back for cover,

  carrying the Ras's unconscious form across his chest.

  Jake Barton heard the crumping explosion of the shells, and shouted up

  at Gregorius, "What are they shooting at now?" Gregorius climbed

  higher out of the turret and peered back. The crushed hull of the Hump

  would have been unnoticed at that range, just another speck like a

  clump of camel-thorn or an amorphous pile of black rock.

  Indeed, both men had looked at it fifty times in the last few minutes

  without recognizing it, but the shell bursts, which began to leap about

  it in fleeting graceful ostrich feathers of dust and smoke, drew

  Gregorius's eye immediately.

  "My grandfather!" he cried . anxiously. "They have been hit, Jake."

  Jake swung the car and halted it, clambering out of the hatch, blowing

  dust from the lens of his binoculars and then focusing them. The

  picture of the destroyed car leaped into close-up and he recognized

  instantly the two distant figures, one in tailored tweeds, the other in

  flowing robes and swirling skirts; the two of them were locked together

  breast to breast and for an unbelieving moment

  Jake thought they were doing a Strauss waltz in the midst of an

  artillery barrage. Then he saw Gareth lift the Ras off the ground and

  stagger with him to the shelter of the overturned car.

  "We must rescue them, Jake," Gregorius exclaimed passionately.

  "They will be killed out there, if we do not." Perhaps it was the

  telepathic transfer of Gareth Swales's suspicions, but Jake experienced

  the sudden guilty prick of temptation. At that moment he knew he

  loved

  Vicky Camberwell, and there was an easy way to clear the field.

  "Jake!" Gregorius called again, and suddenly Jake felt himself so

  sickened by his own treacherous thoughts that there was a hollow

  nauseous feeling in the centre of his gut, and he felt the swift flow

  of saliva from under his tongue.

  "Let's go," he said, and dropped down into the driver's hatch. He

  swung Priscilla the Pig in a tight skidding turn and ran straight for />
  the forest of shell-bursts.

  They drew no fire, the Italians were concentrating on the stationary

  target and they seemed to be making better practice as they figured the

  range. It was a matter of seconds before the Hump took a direct hit,

  and Jake pressed the throttle flat to the floorboards, but Priscilla

  the Pig chose this moment to show her true nature. He felt her baulk,

  and the note of her engine changed momentarily, missing and stuttering,

  power falling off then suddenly she picked up again and roared onwards

  at full power.

  "Good little darling. "Jake peered ahead through the visor, and swung

  slightly out to the left, to come in under cover of the Italians"

  own shell-bursts and the capsized hull of the Hump.

  A shell burst directly ahead, and Jake weaved the big car expertly

  around the gaping smoking crater, pulled in sharply and spun around to

  a sliding halt, facing back the way he had come, ready for a quick

  pull-away. He was hard up under cover of the destroyed hull, partially

  screened from the Italians, and ten paces from where Gareth Swales was

  sitting holding the Ras's frail body on his lap.

  "Gary!" yelled Jake, sticking his head out of the hatch, and

  Gareth looked up at him with a startled unbelieving expression. He had

  been so deafened by shell-bursts that he had not realized that Jake had

  come back for him. Jake had to shout again.

  "Come on, damn you to hell," and this time Gareth moved with alacrity.

  He picked up the Ras like a bundle of dirty laundry and ran with him to

  the car. A shell burst so close that it almost knocked him off his

  feet, and stones and clouds of earth splattered against the armoured

  steel.

  However, Gareth kept his feet and handed up the Ras to the willing

  hands and loving care of his grandson.

  "Is he all right?" Greg demanded anxiously.

  "Hit by a stone, he'll be all right," Gareth grunted, and leaned for an

  instant against the side of the car, his breathing sobbing painfully in

  his throat, his hair and mustache thick with white dust,

  and the sweat cutting deep wet runners down his filth-caked cheeks.

  He looked up at Jake. "I thought you weren't coming back," he

  croaked.

  "It crossed my mind." Jake reached down and took his hand. He boosted

  him up the side of the car, and Gareth held his hand for a second

  longer than was necessary, squeezing slightly.